They were heavy, and they smelled of old paper and cardboard. Who had photo albums anymore? Pictures were kept on computers now, and it only took a minute for Emerson to decide that was sad. Turning the pages and seeing three, four, five photos at a time was a wonderful way to stroll down memory lane. There were no folders to sift through. No order to the photos. They just were. Emerson ran her fingertips over the faces of her parents, so young, smiling their happiness to the camera. It was an old Polaroid print, the kind that was ejected from the camera and had to be shaken to help the development. The wide white band at the bottom was labeled in black marker. Caroline and Freddie, 1982. A year before she was born. Her mother’s brown hair was big, and Emerson chuckled at the 80s style. Her father was actually sporting an almost-mullet, his sandy bangs half in his eyes. Their smiles were huge, and Emerson found herself almost relieved to know they’d had at least that moment of happiness. Emerson was born the following year, and Fredrik hadn’t lasted much longer in one place. They’d stayed married for nearly four years before his gallivanting (her mother’s generic term for his affairs) had forced Caroline to file for divorce.
She gave herself another moment to look at their happy faces, then turned the page. Dozens of baby pictures of Emerson followed. Emerson’s first steps. Emerson’s first dress. Her first teeth. Her first haircut. Her first day of school. Her first pair of skis. That was back when Fredrik still visited on a somewhat regular basis. The picture of nine-year-old Emerson and her father almost brought tears to her eyes. She was the spitting image of him: blond hair and blue eyes exactly the same, though the shape of her mouth was definitely Caroline’s. He had his arm around his daughter, she was holding a trophy for a youth downhill race she’d won, and he looked so damn proud. Several more pictures followed, all of Emerson and her father, all of him filled with pride and smiling widely. They went on until she was eighteen.
Then they just stopped.
“You really were that predictable, weren’t you, Dad?” She said it aloud, and her voice seemed brash in the quiet. “When my career evaporated, so did you.”
With a hard swallow, she shook her head and moved on to the next album, which was mostly pictures of her on the slopes. She flipped pages casually, deciding there wasn’t really any rhyme or reason to the way her mother had filed them. She came across a few photos of her with a group of smaller kids and a flash of memory hit.
“Oh, ski class,” she said with a grin. At twelve years old, Emerson had been good enough to help teach some of the beginner ski classes. She remembered Craig Radford, the ski instructor back then, asking her if she’d mind helping with the younger kids.
“They look up to you, Emmy,” he’d said, his eyes sincere.
She’d agreed without hesitation, and had helped him for two seasons before she no longer had the free time.
Bending forward, she squinted at the photos, all of her towering over a handful of smaller kids, everybody smiling widely. She ran a fingertip over the little heads in each of the four pictures. Vague recollections of a couple of the kids scratched at her memory, but most drew blanks.
Except for one.
Her finger stopped on a young girl who wasn’t looking at the camera, but up at Emerson with what could only be classified as admiration all over her face. She wore a red knit cap, matching red gloves, and a navy blue ski jacket. Her big brown eyes were unmistakable.
“You’re doing great, Cassie. You just have to lean in a little more, and you’ll have it down.”
“I’m having so much fun. This is so much fun!”
Emerson grinned. “Good. It should be fun. As soon as it’s not, you should stop and find something else to do.”
“I never want to do anything else. Thank you so much for teaching me.” Surprising them both, Cassie pushed up with her poles and kissed Emerson on the cheek. “I love you, Emmy!”
Twelve-year-old Emerson laughed out loud and brought her gloved hand to her cheek as little nine-year-old Cassie Parker pushed off with her poles and headed down the hill.
“Parker!” Emerson exclaimed now, a light bulb going off. No wonder she hadn’t been able to remember Cassie from school, even though she insisted they were there at the same time. She’d had a different name then. Huh. She must be married now, Emerson thought.
The disappointment that tickled at her was unexpected.
***
Emerson stepped out of the shower, dried herself on a thick, soft towel, then dropped it on the floor and reached for the nearly empty coffee cup on the vanity. The bang against the side of the house was so startling, her entire naked body jerked enough to slosh coffee over her wrist.
“What the hell?” she muttered, scrambling for the towel. She wrapped it around herself and marched out into the living room. Out the window, she could see a ladder leaning against the house, and somebody’s legs from the knees down. They were clad in navy blue work pants, heavy work boots on the enormous feet.
Irritated at the fright, Emerson angrily stepped into sweats and a T-shirt, and stomped outside barefoot, her hair still wet. She rounded the corner of the house, following the brick pathway, until she came upon the ladder and looked up.
The man cleaning the gutter was familiar, but seemed to have aged twenty years since the last time Emerson had seen him. Jack Grafton—or Mr. Gruffton, as Emerson had always referred to him—had worked at the inn since her grandparents owned it. He had to be eighty years old. He glanced down at her, grunted what she could only assume was a greeting, and continued working.
“Hi, Mr. Grafton,” she said, suddenly feeling ridiculous that she was outside and wet with no sleeves on. Goosebumps broke out across her arms, and she crossed them over one another. Winter was definitely on its way.
He grunted again, then dropped a handful of leaves, dirt, and crap from the gutter, narrowly missing her.
“You scared me. I didn’t know you were working here this morning.” She tried to sound firm, but was pretty sure she failed.
“I work here every morning,” he replied without looking.
Emerson pressed her lips together, cleared her throat. “No. I know that. I meant here. On the cottage.”
“Caroline asked me to check the gutters. They’ve been clogging. So I’m checking the gutters.” Again, he didn’t look at her, didn’t stop his work.
Emerson scratched at her eyebrow. “Okay then.” She backed away, shaking her head. As an afterthought, she added, “Um, be careful up there.”
He grunted again.
“Nice talking to you,” Emerson muttered under her breath as she headed back into the warmth of the cottage, returned to the bedroom, and closed the blinds and the door.
A little while later, Emerson entered the lobby area of the main house. Mary was at the computer, concentrating hard on whatever she was reading. She glanced up, smiled.
“Good morning, Emmy.”
Emerson bristled at the nickname that very few people called her, but managed to smile back. “Morning.” Before she could say any more, the door opened and Gordie came bounding in, followed by his owner. He made a beeline for Mary, whose voice raised in pitch by three octaves.
“There’s my handsome boy,” she cooed. “Guess what I have for you. Guess. Go on.” He trailed her back into the kitchen as Emerson watched them go, shaking her head.
“Yeah, he has that effect on the ladies,” Cassie said with a grin. She leaned a forearm against the counter. “Hi.”
“Hey.”
Their gazes held, and it occurred to Emerson that nobody else had such intense, direct eye contact as Cassie. Holding her gaze was fun. Sizzling. Kind of sexy. Cassie wore her usual wind pants and fleece pullover. Today’s was bright blue, a color that looked great on her. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she had light gloves on that she pulled off finger by finger as Emerson watched.
“Chilly this morning,” Cassie commented.
“I know. I went out to yell at Mr. Gruffton for scaring the crap out of
me.”
“Mr. Gruffton?” Cassie snorted.
“That’s what I always called him when I was a kid.”
“It fits.”
“Right?” Emerson asked, her eyes wide.
Mary and Gordie returned. “What’s right?” Mary asked.
“That Jack’s name should be Gruffton instead of Grafton,” Cassie filled her in.
Mary chuckled, then waved the girls off, trying not to smile. “Now, now. Be nice.”
“He put the ladder against the house and started cleaning the gutters while I was running around naked,” Emerson told her. “He nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I doubt he would’ve noticed, honey,” Mary said with a dismissive wave as Cassie raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“Well. Still.” Emerson cleared her throat.
“He’s having a hard time,” Mary said then, her voice softening. “Your mom was like a daughter to him. He’s known her since she was a child. He’s grieving.” She put a warm hand on Emerson’s arm and squeezed. “Cut him a little slack.”
Emerson nodded, feeling guilt settle over her.
“Caroline asked him several weeks ago if he could check her gutters,” Mary said, turning wet eyes back to the computer screen as she absently petted Gordie’s head. “So…” She lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.
A beat of quiet passed.
Cassie tapped the counter. “So. What needs to be done today?”
“Hey, before you get into that, I need a favor,” Emerson said, her focus on Mary. With a grimace, she explained the situation with her rental car. “With Mom’s car already here, I don’t need the rental and it’s costing me a small fortune.”
“How long are you staying?” Mary asked. “I thought you’d be heading out soon.”
Emerson hesitated, looked from Mary to Cassie and back. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Well, we’re fully booked this weekend. I’m not sure about getting away for that long…”
“I can do it,” Cassie said. Both women looked at her. “What? I’ve got enough people on at the store tomorrow. They won’t miss me. Gordie and I like drives.”
“What do you mean you like drives?” Mary said, confused. “You don’t even have a car.”
“You don’t?” Emerson asked, surprised.
With a shrug, Cassie explained, “I don’t really need one. I walk or bike everywhere I need to be around here. If I’ve got to drive someplace, I borrow one of my parents’ cars. It’s no big deal.”
Emerson studied her. “Are you sure you don’t mind? It’s going to blow your whole day.”
Cassie smiled warmly. “I don’t mind.”
“You can drive my mom’s car.”
“I have before. Not a problem.”
On a sigh of relief, Emerson asked, “What’s a good time?”
“You tell me. Gordie and I can go whenever.”
“Is noon too late?”
Cassie shook her head. “Actually, that would be perfect. Gives me time to get things settled at the store, make sure everything is covered. We’ll meet you here?”
“Perfect.” Emerson’s expression became serious. “Thank you so much.”
“Of course. That’s what friends are for.”
CHAPTER NINE
“Hello, Mr. Cross. My name is Emerson Rosberg. My mother was Caroline Rosberg. I’m sure you remember her; she sold you part of the Lakeshore Inn several years ago. I got your number from her attorney, Brad Klein. He mentioned you were interested in possibly purchasing the rest of the inn as well as the rental property in the village of Lake Henry. I was wondering if we could have a conversation about it. Maybe next week? You can call me on this number, which is my cell, or you can contact Mr. Klein and he’ll get the message to me. I look forward to hearing from you. Thanks.”
Relaxing in the Town Car was lovely. Arnold Cross would have it no other way. If he was going to be sitting on his ass for hours on end, he was going to do so in luxury and style. Not quite a limo—that was a little too obnoxious even for him—the car had tinted windows, satellite television and radio, a built in Wi-Fi hot spot, and a mini fridge. Add in the buttery soft leather seats and the privacy panel he could slide up or down with the flick of a switch, and it might as well have been a limo.
A glance out the window told him they were about forty-five minutes from his home in Saratoga Springs. The races were over for the season, though there were a couple harness races tomorrow. Nobody really cared about those, but he planned to go the track and watch anyway, and take care of a couple of business transactions while there. He was greatly anticipating the warmth and comfort of his own bed. They’d been on the road for nearly three hours after his meeting in Manhattan, but Emerson Rosberg’s call had him too wound up to doze in the car, so he gazed out the window and watched the lights of Albany whiz by.
Considering the majority of his business dealings took place in Manhattan, he’d save himself more than half an hour of drive time if he lived in Albany. But just the thought of the hundreds of underhanded, slimy politicians living in this city made his skin crawl. He had no intention of mingling with them. Despite the power that could come with it, Cross surprisingly hated politics and steered clear. He preferred to watch it zip by the windows of his car as he passed through town. No, he would never live here.
His fear of flying was irrational. He knew this. He wasn’t afraid of heights. It wasn’t the crowds—he had more than enough money to fly first class or better yet, charter his own plane. No, that wasn’t the problem. The issue was that no matter how hard he tried, he could not wrap his brain around the idea of a giant hunk of metal weighing God knows how many tons simply floating through the air. It made no rational sense to him, which was silly. He knew this, too. But it didn’t matter. He could not bring himself to put his life in the hands of some pilot he didn’t know from Adam. No, there were other means of travel. He had the money, so he hired Jeff, his personal driver of the past three years. He paid the man well, and in exchange, Jeff drove him wherever he wanted to go whenever he needed to be there.
Thoughts turned back to the phone message. Well, wasn’t that interesting? He’d been trying to buy the rest of that godforsaken inn for five years now, and that damned Caroline Rosberg wouldn’t even entertain the idea. He was happy to hear that her daughter had other plans.
Not that he was happy Caroline was dead. Of course not. He wasn’t made of stone. And she was actually a nice woman. Tough. He liked that about her. When her parents had passed, they left some debt, which came as a surprise to Mrs. Rosberg. She didn’t want to sell the inn, but the debt was too much for her to handle, and he’d given her a very fair offer. To his surprise, she’d counter-offered, agreeing to split the inn into two parts: waterfront and water view. Cross wanted it all, but he decided to take what he could, and so bought the water view property. Over the years, he’d given her several offers for the waterfront piece, but the response had always been a resounding “no.” He kept trying. She kept saying no. And much as she drove him crazy by steadfastly refusing any offer he might put forth, he had to admire her moxie. Not many people refused Arnold Cross. No. Scratch that. Not many people refused Arnold Cross’s money. That was a more accurate statement. Those who said money couldn’t buy happiness obviously never had any.
Cross scrolled back into his memory banks to come up with what he knew about Emerson Rosberg. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. He had never lived in Lake Henry, so he wasn’t around during her heyday, but there had been enough stories for him to get the gist. The daughter of prominent international downhill Swedish ski champion Fredrik Rosberg, Emerson was being groomed to follow in daddy’s footsteps. And she was good. She had the makings to go all the way to the Olympics and more. She was a natural. And her good looks didn’t hurt. Once she was too old to ski competitively, a career in sports casting would have been easy. She was tall, blonde, stunning; she’d have been a lock. Once upon a time, Emerson Rosberg was the poster child for do
wnhill skiing…this would have been what? Ten, twelve years ago? Lake Henry was the perfect place for somebody like her to grow up. With its variety of ski slopes and home to dozens of important races—plus its never-ending bid to host a winter Olympics—she got the best training, had the best places to practice her craft right in her own back yard.
Cross didn’t know much about what happened. All he had were the stories people had told him and articles he’d read. Apparently, Emerson had taken a final run down a slope in terrible weather conditions. There was no race, no crowd, no coaches. She was on her own, had been practicing, took a run, and wiped out. Badly. Shredded the insides of her knee so severely that after several surgeries to repair it, it had to be completely replaced. That was it. That’s all it took. One poor judgment call. Career over at barely nineteen years old.
She left town after that. Cross heard Los Angeles. Clear across the country to a city that never gets snow. Emerson Rosberg obviously wanted to get as far away from Lake Henry and downhill skiing as possible. She was back now, but Cross would lay odds that she didn’t want to stay long, and that she was itching to get back to the city where everybody was beautiful and nobody was real.
A grin spread across his face as he took a bottled water from the mini fridge and cracked the cap open with a twist. If he was right about Ms. Rosberg, and she wanted to get the hell out of Lake Henry as soon as possible, negotiations should be a piece of cake. He’d call her lawyer first thing Monday morning and set up a meeting.
Never a man to sit idly by and do nothing (that wasn’t how you made money), he popped open his laptop and began crunching numbers. With property values still rebounding and the work that would need to be done on both the inn as well as the rental, he would be in darn good shape to make a nice, tidy profit on this deal.
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